Men are not always what they seem.--LESSING.
Our tale is no creation of fancy; it is the reality in which we live;
bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh. Our own time and the men of
our own age we shall see. But not alone will we occupy ourselves with
every-day life, with the moss on the surface; the whole tree, from the
roots to the fragrant leaves, will we observe. The heavy earth shall
press the roots, the moss and bark of every-day life adhere to the
stern, the strong boughs with flowers and leaves spread themselves out,
whilst the sun of poetry shall shine among them, and show the colors,
odor, and singing-birds. But the tree of reality cannot shoot up so soon
as that of fancy, like the enchantment in Tieck’s “Elves.” We must seek
our type in nature. Often may there be an appearance of cessation;
but that is not the case. It is even so with our story; whilst
our characters, by mutual discourse, make themselves worthy of
contemplation, there arises, as with the individual branches of the
tree, an unseen connection. The branch which shoots high up in the air,
as though it would separate itself from the mother-stem, only presses
forward to form the crown, to lend uniformity to the whole tree. The
lines which diverge from the general centre are precisely those which
produce the harmony.
We shall, therefore, soon see, though these scenes out of every-day life
are no digression from the principal events, nothing episodical which
one may pass over. In order still sooner to arrive at a clear perception
of this assertion, we will yet tarry a few moments in the house of Mr.
Berger, the merchant; but in the mean time we have advanced three weeks.
Wilhelm and Otto had happily passed their examen philosophicum. The
latter had paid several visits, and was already regarded as an old
friend of the family. The lover already addressed him with his droll
“Good day, Mr. Petersen;” and Grethe was witty about his melancholy
glance, which he was not always able to conquer. She called it “making
faces,” and besought him to appear so on the day of her funeral.
The object of the five sisters’ first Platonic love had been their
brother. They had overwhelmed him with caresses and tenderness, had
admired and worshipped him. “The dear little man!” they called him; they
had no other. But Hans Peter was so impolite and teasing toward the dear
sisters, that they were found to resign him so soon as one of them had
a lover. Upon this lover they all clung. Each one seemed to have a piece
of him. He was Grethe’s bridegroom, would be their brother-in-law. They
might address him with the confidential thou, and even give him a little
kiss.
Otto’s appearance in the family caused these rays to change their
direction. Otto was handsome, and possessed of fortune; either of which
often suffices to bow a female heart. Beauty bribes the thoughtless;
riches, the prudent.
Maren, or as she was here called, Maja, had arrived. The young ladies
had already pulled off some of her bows, arranged her hair differently,
and made one of her silk handkerchiefs into an apron; but, spite of all
this finesse, she still remained the lady from Lemvig. They could remove
no bows from her pronunciation. She had been the first at home; here she
could not take that rank. This evening she was to see in the theatre,
for the first time, the ballet of the “Somnambule.”
“It is French!” said Hans Peter; “and frivolous, like everything that we
have from them.”
“Yes, the scene in the second act, where she steps out of the window,”
said the merchant; “that is very instructive for youth!”
“But the last act is sweet!” cried the lady. “The second act is
certainly, as Hans Peter very justly observed, somewhat French. Good
heavens! he gets quite red, the sweet lad!” She extended her hand to
him, and nodded, smiling, whereupon Hans Peter spoke very prettily
about the immorality on the stage. The father also made some striking
observation.
“Yes,” said the lady, “were all husbands like thee, and all young men
like Hans Peter, they would speak in another tone on the stage, and
dress in another manner. In dancing it is abominable; the dresses are so
short and indecent, just as though they had nothing on! Yet, after all,
we must say that the ‘Somnambule’ is beautiful. And, really, it is quite
innocent!”
They now entered still deeper into the moral: the conversation lasted
till coffee came.
Maren’s heart beat even quicker, partly in expectation of the play,
through hearing of the corruptions of this Copenhagen Sodom. She heard
Otto defend this French piece; heard him speak of affectation. Was
he then corrupted? How gladly would she have heard him discourse upon
propriety, as Hans Peter had done. “Poor Otto!” thought she; “this
is having no relations, but being forced to struggle on in the world
alone.”
The merchant now rose. He could not go to the theatre. First, he had
business to attend to; and then he must go to his club, where he had
yesterday changed his hat.
“Nay, then, it has happened to thee as to Hans Peter!” said the lady.
“Yesterday, in the lecture-room, he also got a strange hat. But, there,
thou hast his hat!” she suddenly exclaimed, as her eye fell upon the hat
which her husband held in his hand. “That is Hans Peter’s hat! Now, we
shall certainly find that he has thine! You have exchanged them here at
home. You do not know each other’s hats, and therefore you fancy this
occurred from home.”
One of the sisters now brought the hat which Hans Peter had got in
mistake. Yes, it was certainly the father’s. Thus an exchange in the
house, a little intermezzo, which naturally, from its insignificance,
was momentarily forgotten by all except the parties concerned, for to
them it was an important moment in their lives; and to us also, as we
shall see, an event of importance, which has occasioned us to linger
thus long in this circle. In an adjoining room will we, unseen spirits,
watch the father and son. They are alone; the family is already in the
theatre. We may, indeed, watch them--they are true moralists. It is only
a moral drawn from a hat.
But the father’s eyes rolled, his cheeks glowed, his words were
sword-strokes, and must make an impression on any disposition as gentle
as his son’s; but the son stood quiet, with a firm look and with a
smile on his lips, such as the moral bestows. “You were in the adjoining
room!” said he. “Where it is proper for you to be there may I also
come.”
“Boy!” cried the father, and named the place, but we know it not;
neither know we its inhabitants. Victor Hugo includes them in his
“Children’s Prayer,” in his beautiful poem, “La Prière pour Tous.” The
child prays for all, even “for those who sell the sweet name of love.”
[Note: “Prie!... Pour les femmes échevelées Qui vendent
le doux nom d’amour!”]
“Let us be silent with each other!” said the son. “I am acquainted with
many histories. I know another of the pretty Eva!”--
“Eva!” repeated the father.
We will hear no more! It is not proper to listen. We see the father
and son extend their hands. It appeared a scene of reconciliation. They
parted: the father goes to his business, and Hans Peter to the
theatre, to anger himself over the immorality in the second act of the
“Somnambule.”